


Within, Without

by sarahmonious



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drinking, Episode Tag, Episode: s10e03 Soul Survivor, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Mark of Cain, Vomiting, soul survivor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 11:08:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2505605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahmonious/pseuds/sarahmonious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam may have cured him from being a demon, but the effects still linger. Coda to 10.03, Soul Survivor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Within, Without

Dean wasn’t sure what time it was.

Not surprising, considering how little one cares about time when bloodlust is the only thing present in every waking thought, every heartbeat. Bloodlust and alcohol and the sweet, sweet satisfaction of not giving a shit.

That, and the lack of windows in the bunker. The digital clock in his room said 4:32, but whether that was AM or PM, he had no idea.

He assumed Cas was either out in the car with his other angel friend or roaming around the bunker like a creeper. And Sam….

Sam was currently passed out drunk on his own bed. Dean knew, because Dean had put him there. Later, long after he had spoken with Cas, Dean had walked out to their makeshift “dining” room and saw Sam, a bottle of whiskey, and a shot glass. The whiskey was half-gone. The shot glass was still clean.

Sam had looked at him bleary-eyed. And then his face fell in recognition. _Dean_ , he mumbled. _Dean._

Dean didn’t look to see if there were tears. He didn’t think about the possibility that Sam could (probably would) be afraid of him. He simply took his brother’s good arm, wrapped it around his shoulder, and half-carried Sam to his bedroom.

And now Dean was alone with just his thoughts for company.

He had put the rest of the half-bottle of whiskey away. God knew he wanted a drink, wanted one so badly he could taste it, but… _other_ Dean had drunk alcohol like water. He figured his liver would probably appreciate the break.

Besides, he had already thrown up twice in the past three hours, which sadly included the cheeseburger and fries Sam had gotten him. Best not to push it.

His bed jiggled. No. His leg jiggled as he sat on his bed because he couldn’t for the life of him sit still. Or sleep. He had already gone over his room twice, meticulously cleaning it and clearing it of crumbs and cobwebs, organizing his notes, and scanning over his pictures and his porn to make sure everything was still in order.

Anything to not think about the buzz in his veins, like standing next to a speaker at a concert and hearing the ring in his ears and the vibration in his bones hours later. Out of the corner of his eye, he made sure the cuff of his shirt still covered his right forearm.

Time to go for a walk.

He stopped when he came to the wooden door he had destroyed only hours ago. Sense-memory washed over him, a giddy, revolting thrill - Sam’s blood, God, how he _yearned_ for it, how delicious it would be to spill across the floor _and commit every one of his last breaths to memory—_

He saw spots as he retched bile on the cold, marble floor.

*

An hour later, he had cleared away all of the debris from the door. Twenty minutes, a walk to the garage, and a toolkit later, he pried off the bent brass hinges and threw them into the trash bag of splintered wood.

“Don’t suppose they kept spare doors around here anywhere,” he mumbled to himself. Knowing this place, it wouldn’t surprise him if there were. Maybe he’d make one. Buy a plank of wood, rent a sanding belt and a radial saw…. Sam would certainly be amused. The corner of his mouth twitched up, if only for a second.

His stomach gave a small rumble as he threw the trash bag near the front entrance to be dealt with later. It felt like an aching cavern inside of him, but eating again was the last thing he wanted to do right now. He was so tired. God, he was so tired.

Dean bypassed his bedroom and headed instead to the bathroom. The stench of sweat and the faint smell of blood hovered around him like a cloud, and getting rid of it might help with the nausea. He stumbled as he shucked off his jeans and gripped the counter tight, resolutely not thinking about how hard he was going to crash later. Overshirt next. Easy. Sure. But his heart pounded the second he went for the buttons.

Seconds dragged by. He grunted. He was so tired.

“Don’t be such a chickenshit. C’mon.”

With a stilted breath, he started with the buttons, his gaze fixated anywhere else but the mirror or his arm.

The steaming hot water felt like heaven. He lathered up his hair, wondering at how long it had gotten. _Other_ Dean hadn’t cared about anything but alcohol and the Blade ( _no no no don’t think about it, think about something else_ ). It was a miracle Sam hadn’t teased him about it yet. Maybe he should drag them both into town for proper haircuts instead of getting out the clippers and taking care of each other’s hair as they’d done so many times in the past. Sam had always sworn on pain of death that he’d make Dean bald if he ever cut Sam’s hair above his ear—

Lost in thought, his fingers grazed the Mark. He shuddered uncontrollably, the mix of pain and pleasure and guilt and want almost too much to bear. It was Hell all over again, being raised from the dead and coming back into the normal world where ripping people apart down to their marrow was frowned upon, where he couldn’t sleep for fear of nightmares and hearing and seeing and _feeling_ again everything he had done downstairs. The ecstasy of being a demon, so powerful and raw.

He smacked his hand on the tiles hard enough to make it sting and throb. He couldn’t let himself go down that line of thinking, refused to. Fuck this shit. He needed a drink regardless of if he got sick with every swallow and gave himself cirrhosis in the process.

After drying off and rummaging in his dresser for a clean pair of clothes, he staggered to the liquor shelf. Sam was still sawing logs, so Dean picked up the half-bottle of whiskey he’d put away earlier, hoping it might have the same effect on him.

An indeterminable amount of time later, he left two empty beer bottles on the table and clutched the smooth glass of the remaining whiskey as he wandered slowly to Sam’s room. Dean felt pretty proud that he hadn’t puked up anything else and kinda wanted to tell his brother. Except… oh yeah. The door was closed. Sam was sleeping. Well, no matter.

“Sit. Gonna sit,” he said quietly, because Sam had had it pretty rough and if anyone deserved a good night’s sleep, it was his giant freak of a brother.

He misjudged the wall a little and fell back on it a little harder than he wanted, but that was fine. As he slid down, his shirt rode up, his warm skin coming into contact with the cool wall, but that was fine too.

“Close my eyes for just a second,” he whispered. Sam was sleeping behind the door, safe, since Dean was on the other side of it. So he’d close his eyes. For just a second.

*

The next thing he knew, someone was trying to pry the whiskey bottle out of his fingers. He gripped it tighter and heard a huff above him.

“Let it go, Dean.”

“Gonna start singin’ me Disney songs?” Dean slurred back, not opening his eyes. That earned him a full-on sigh.

“You’re such an idiot,” Sam said. Dean got the message loud and clear.

Careful not to jostle his bad arm, Sam lifted him up, wrapped Dean’s arm around his shoulder, and half-carried him to Sam’s bedroom.

“We gotta stop meetin’ like this,” Dean said as Sam deposited him on the bed.

Sam stretched out and lifted the covers over them both. “Shut up and go back to sleep,” he said.

They’d be having words later, Dean knew. But that was okay. Words were better than blood.

He was out again before he could hear Sam’s snores.


End file.
